Why Jenna Should Buy Me Books About Becoming A Millionaire
So Jenna got me a book for Christmas called The Emptied Soul: On the Nature of the Psychopath, which, by the way, is a way better gift than those big scissors people use to trim hedges or, say, slippers—though my feet have been chilly lately and slippers would’ve been nice—and it made me feel weird in a detached kind of way—probably the way a psychopath feels, or doesn’t feel, after he commits some heinous crime against humanity—to get a book about psychopaths from my wife for Christmas. But she knows where my curiosity leans and understands that my interest in psychopathology is that of a spectator and not a participant.
Or does she? Cue thunder and a lightning flash that makes me look sinister.
So I read it and, you will have guessed by now, I’m pretty sure I’m a psychopath. And if you’re thinking about disagreeing with me, be advised that I could kill you without flinching. I just read it.
The best part about this particular book was that it didn’t blame the psychopath’s parents for making him a psychopath like the monstrous slop pile of whiny psychological literature that refuses to grow up. Some people have natural inclinations to play the flute, some people are good at math, and some people are psychopaths. It also didn’t dwell on curing the psychopath. I like that idea. A lot. Some people are fucking psychopathic. Cut them some slack.
So I tell Jenna I think I’m a psychopath, that psychopaths lack eros, they can’t love, and she tells me I’m being ridiculous because my heart explodes with love for her and I tell her she’s right, maybe I’m not a psychopath. But then I say maybe I’m only agreeing with her because I’m erecting a façade of love to disguise my real identity as a loveless psychopath and she says I’m doing wonders for her insecurity.
But grappling with security is just a day in the life of living with a psychopath. You take the good with the bad. Except you do it a lot more deftly if you’re a psychopath. Because the sun shines. The rain falls. You kill people. You deal with the bodies. And you just keep going. Who knows why? You just do. Because of that constant unspeakable little thing inside you—it gets you out of bed and urges you to make breakfast, ushering you out into the world where you see something strange, a girl stopping to pick up a rock or a man arguing with a woman, and you remember you have a bunch of blood flowing through you, pumped by a mindless heart that’s really, in the end, just a metaphor for a tiny little fire that burns all night, that never goes out, even in the rain—it just keeps burning and burning and burning—irrationally, tenaciously, like love.
You’re not a psychopath. You’re just a weird little fire.
Monday, December 28, 2009
Reader Comments (14)
Crackle, crackle, crackle.
That sounds good.
Hmm, fires all around at the moment.
Warms hands*
i have a feeling i would like that book. perhaps too much. thanks for the recommendation!
psychopaths have always been a fascination of mine. true crime books lined bookshelves as a teenager; those of genocide in my 20s, torture in my 30s. understanding the brains behind the actions (or trying to anyway) seems to be at the heart of the fascination. nature vs. nurture, that whole thing.
wouldnt it be nice if the title psychopath could be stamped across the whole lot of evil out there? If only. I think true psychopaths are probably more plentiful than any of us would feel comfortable with, but not as many as i wish. few individuals can truly have the luxury of that excuse, stating *hey, im a psychopath - so not my fault* and are instead just hurt people hurting people. hey, psychopaths are people too. shouldnt they get to let their freak flags fly? why everyone else? why do i suddenly want a *hug a psychopath* or *psychopaths are people too* t-shirt?
maybe the writers of Dexter could work that into some future season. that would rock. dexter, the poster-boy for psychopaths everywbere? oh my.
see what happens when i read your blog? i am not responsible.
:)
I thought you decided you were NOT a psychopath when you read that they could eat poo without being grossed out? You eat POO? Thats it, I'm done kissing you, I will not kiss a poomouth
jenna
This is exactly why I can't read books about new forms of abnormal psych. Because borderline personality disorder is just a skip away from sociopath, and I don't wanna walk around, feeling like a poorly portrayed Dexter.
I always knew there were heads in your freezer. That explains the missing Otter Pops.
I have to presume your wife keeps a large knife hidden under her pillow...just in case.
I would look out for PhyscoMathic Flautists
you lost me at 'those big scissors people use to trim hedges or, say, slippers'.
*shakes head to dispel images of psychopaths with big scissors trying to cut toes off innocent plaid slippers*
Yeah cut us some slcak or at least show us how to light a better fire.
what? poo?
Damn.
Up until the whole blood flowing through your veins, you could have been a vampire.
Then you could write a book on being a millionaire.
Fuck yeah.
Well THANK GOD.
I was actually concerned for a minute.
Not about you.
About me.
Glad I'm just a weird little fire. At least I'm in good company.